The Hero Never Sleeps
by trufflemores
Summary: 4.21. Barry's nightmares are potent, but Iris helps bring him back down to Earth.


_In his dreams, they're trapped places he can't reach them._

 _Settling out ten thousand leagues under the sea. Losing ground on a flagging International Space Station. Suffocating in a broken mine elevator. Falling from the height of a commercial airline. Writhing in poisoned agony in the middle of the Amazon rain forest. Baking in the inferno of a tunnel explosion._

 _He dives underwater and feels the crushing pressure of the ocean around him, forcing him away. He hunches over the console and punches in codes, trying to override the computers killing the crew. He begins the impossible, finger-snapping process of unburying miles of hard rock keeping him from his family. He stares in undisguised horror at the open expanse, desperate to find the body before it hits the ground. He crashes through wickedly sharp foliage, eyes wide open and still finding no one. He runs to the river and back again, runs to the nearest fire station and back again, does everything he can think of once and again, and still the fire rages._

 _In his dreams, they never die. Over the comms, they plead an invisible watcher for help, unaware of his presence. He jams the communications' button, desperate to tell them that he's_ there _, he_ hears them _, but they never respond to any of his outgoing messages. He knows they aren't received. He knows that he will die if he goes further. He goes further. He blacks out._

He awakens, staring at the dark ceiling of his bedroom. It's already fuzzy – a sinking ship, a mayday call sent out in an insurmountable storm – but he shivers involuntarily at the memory. The electrifying feeling of a distress signal that he already knew, from the instant the comm came to life next to his lounging dream self, he could never answer. Still he took off, and still he fought the storm, until—

Reaching up to rub his tired eyes, he sits up slowly, trying not to wake Iris. She sleeps lighter than he does – her justification is that _someone_ has to be watchful in the late hours – but she doesn't stir tonight. He exhales. He tries to banish the mayday call from his memory, but the words, while indistinct, ring in his ears. _Mayday, mayday, this is the S.S._ Catacomb, _we are taking on water. Coast guard, do you copy?_

 _Catacomb_. A terrible name for a ship.

Sliding out from under the sheets, Barry pads quietly out of the room, slipping unnoticed into the main area. He shuts the door behind him and takes a heavy seat on the couch, sinking into the cushions. Eyes heavy, he lies there in a big cat sprawl for an uncountable time, listening to the mental recording of the event. _Mayday, mayday, this is the S.S._ Catacomb, _we need immediate assistance, we are taking on water._

Despite the biblical conditions invoked by the dream, he still tried to venture out into the storm that would claim every life in its path. It didn't matter that he would drown. He'd drowned in other dreams. It was always a strange sensation, taking on water and gradually losing sense of the dream environment, an excruciatingly long but disconcertingly painless event. Evidently, death in dreams did not transcribe into reality: that, or his reality was a truly strange afterlife.

A deafening headache begins to drown out the memory of the dream, leaving his brow furrowed in pain, one hand pressed against it to mute the sound. He should get up, drink some water, maybe grab a snack, but movement requires action, and action is beyond him. Lying there, he waits for the pain to pass, for the dream to play out as it always does.

He is barely awake when he hears footsteps, but he peers over the back of the couch at his companion slinking across the floor, a blanket drawn around her shoulders. It trails like a bridal veil after her, and he smiles idly at the memory, for a moment overwhelmed with affection. Then the anvil cracks hard against his left temple and he winces, pressing his palm there.

"You okay?" Iris asks, yawning.

A noncommittal sound. "Yeah," he says, his mouth stupid at this hour. "Didn't mean to wake you up."

Iris hums, sidling over, a hand sifting lightly through his sleep-spiked hair. He tilts his head a little towards her, encouraging it. "Just feeling sleepless?"

"Somethin' like that," he mumbles, eyes closed. He's exhausted – twenty-two-hour days will do that to even a speedster – but he doesn't want to hear the comms come to life. "What time is it? I didn't check."

"Four-thirty." Four-thirty. He grimaces. That's earlier than he'd like to greet the new day, but the thought of going back to sleep amply deters him. "Sorry."

She scratches his scalp. He groans in ecstasy. "I love you," he tells her seriously, even though his head aches and his mouth is full of the phantom taste of salt water. He knows that if he tries to drink or eat, it'll get worse.

"I love you, too." Sliding her hand to his shoulder, she squeezes it gently. "Wanna talk about it?"

Shaking his head slowly – the mere thought of reiterating the dream exhausts him – Barry says, "It's late. You should go get some sleep." He picks up her hand and kisses the back of it. "I'll be there in a bit." It's a lie, but maybe in broad daylight he'll slump into the sheets for a quick cat nap. The thought sounds heavenly, a notion accentuated by an even louder throb in his forehead.

Gliding around the couch, Iris says graciously, "I _could_." She looks at him, blanket still draped regally around her shoulders. He holds up an arm obligingly and she settles on the couch next to him, tucked under it. She is warm and soft against him. His eyelids flutter shut before drifting back open, half-mast. "But I'd rather be with you."

He tips his head to rest his cheek against the top of her head, breathing deeply. His head hurts, but it's less noticeable with her weight beside him, keeping him grounded. For a time, they simply breathe together, inhabiting the same space without needing to say it. At last, he speaks. "One day," he vows in a rumbly voice, "we'll sleep through the night."

She cuddles down against him, nuzzling in like a cat. "Central City never sleeps," she reminds him, cracking a yawn. "I'm not sure we get to, either."

He hums, eyes closed. "I dream about them," he admits.

"About who?" she prompts lightly, tracing circles against the forearm closest to her.

He exhales. "Strangers, mostly. People in need."

She squeezes his wrist gently. "The Flash really doesn't sleep."

A humorless huff of air escapes him. "No. He doesn't." Silent for a time, Barry continues slowly, "They're begging for help. Not me – they don't know I'm listening. They're just asking someone – anyone – to intervene. If there's a God, I imagine it's what He feels like." He has to open his eyes to occlude the sense of superposition: in his mind's eye, he can see the STAR Labs' console and harmless little communicator all too easily.

"I know the dreams aren't real," he continues wearily. "I know that the people in them are just part of my imagination. But the problems – the people in _need_ , those are real. They're always real. There are people right now who need me and _I won't be there_." He feels a sudden lump in his throat, a knifelike agony in his chest. He almost can't stay still. Exhaustion alone roots him to his seat. "I could listen, I could – I'd _try_ to hear them. And if I did, I'd have to try to save them. I'd have to."

Struggling to keep his voice steady, he says, "I'm not glad that I can't hear them – that they're out there and _I don't know where_ – but I'm … I'm relieved. I'm relieved, and I'm a terrible person for it, because – because people _need_ me, they need The Flash, they need him more than they need the idea of God because maybe God isn't real and maybe God isn't coming, but I _am_ real and I _can_ help and every second—" Drawing in a deep, shaky breath, he finishes, "Every second I'm not trying to, someone is suffering for it. There are preventable tragedies happening _right now_ and I'm not there and I'm _grateful_ that I can't hear those people. I'm grateful."

His eyes burn, but he doesn't cry. He can't cry when he's this tired. He's pretty sure it's a defense mechanism – the human body has little armor, and that it has, it must cling to; anesthetizing itself in the late hours seems to be one strategy amply employed in his life – but it makes him ache for tears. He should cry for them. He _should_ suffer with them. They deserve to be heard, even if they die thinking they were unanswered.

There's a tear. It's salty when it hits his lips, and he wants to drown rather than pretend the mayday message never came.

Iris strokes his forearm silently, and another tear spills down his cheek, and maybe his defense mechanisms are broken, too, because he's crying, and he should be too tired to cry but somehow he isn't, and those people – they weren't dead, not yet, and they were using their _last breaths_ to cry out for help, for _anyone_ , and he was _someone_ , he could help, but he wasn't _there_.

He's struggling to keep his breathing even, refusing to sob. If he starts he doesn't know if he'll stop, and he's so _tired_ , he just wants to _sleep_ and not be The Flash for two hours. That's all he needs. Two uninterrupted hours of sleep, and he'll feel alive again.

Haunted by the intermedium between dreams and reality, exhausted and headachy, he slouches until he can bury his face against Iris' shoulder, her arms circling around his own. He breathes near her, close enough that he can feel her heartbeat, and it's soft and reasonable, not frantic like his own. It's _soothing_. Her hand at the nape of his neck is soothing. Her presence is soothing.

He settles.

Into the darkness, she says softly, "We can't save everyone. But we can save some people. We're not gods, and even _God_ doesn't save everyone. Tragedy – I don't want to say it's unavoidable, but it's ineradicable. It's part of us, part of the human condition, and we're doing our best to alleviate it, not cure it." Scratching the base of his neck, she says, "We're doing a good job, Barry. I know it doesn't feel like it – a drop in the bucket when there's an entire ocean out there – but we _are_ making a difference. We've helped thousands of people. We're making profound changes in this world, and it's not going to fix everything, but it is going to make the world a little less tragic, and that's a _good_ thing."

He can't speak. There are no words to describe the emotion he feels – a mixture of anguish and relief, hope and defeat – but he listens hungrily when she continues. "I love you. I love you for what you do, and what you _try_ to do, and what you would do if no one stopped you. I love that you care and that you're relentless, and I love that you're human enough to feel pain over other people's suffering. You inspire me. You inspire everyone at STAR – everyone in this _city_. But it's okay to rest." Rhythmically, hypnotically, she repeats, "It's okay, it's okay, it's okay…."

He doesn't know if she stops saying it – doesn't consciously register when he loses count – but he huddles down with her, her blanket partially draped over him, shielding him. The weight of the world rests beyond it, beyond them. His headache resolves, and sleep settles over him slowly, gently.

In it, he inhabits a quiet world where no one needs saving, and it is almost too beautiful to leave.

Still – no dream will ever capture the sheer joy of being held in the crushing embrace of a stranger, profusely thanking The Flash for victory over tragedy.

They're family – every human on Earth is family, and he doesn't see them as strangers, but people with _lives_ , people with _meaning_ , and the opportunity to help them, directly and hugely, moves him. It's the reason he gets up every morning and puts on the red armor. He fights for them. He fights because he loves them more than he fears the idea of failing them.

He loves them, and love is a good reason to wake up every day, and keep going.


End file.
